Disappointment is Best Self-Inflicted
by createandconstruct
Summary: An in-between scene for 1.12 in which Jughead tries to get some rest on the couch in Archie's garage, but the brutality of the present makes sleep hard to come by.


_"From whatever trouble seems to follow the Jones' around wherever they go, whatever they do!"_

The couch was never comfortable. It was stiff, the stuffing of each pillow flattened from the constant weight and unwelcome positions that Archie often sported on its surface.

Not to mention every inch smelled, impressively, like Vegas, with the dog's hair practically acting as a separate blanket for the cushions. Usually Jughead didn't mind the dog and his scent. The vanilla lab smelled of fresh grass and a hint of a familiar, yet still foreign, comfort that only came from living in a warm home with the constant brushing of friendly hands through fur. Often he liked to dig his nose into Vegas' neck when capturing the dog in a hug, so he relish in the feeling of calm that the animal brought him.

But as Jughead pushed his cheek deeper into the cold and lumpy pillow the loose dog hair along the cushioning only left a sour taste in his mouth and a prickling feeling of _wrong_ along his skin. It was the kind of feeling that only came from sleeping on a stranger's make-shift couch-bed. The feeling that he was somewhere he didn't belong, in a place that would never belong to him.

It was fine.

When he had turned to Archie claiming he would take the garage for the night he had already steered himself for an uncomfortable rest. It wasn't like he planned to be sleeping well tonight anyway. A sleepless night on some smelly, too small couch, in a drafty garage would offer the same comfort as an air mattress on the floor of a heated room which held the breathing of his friend nearby.

There was nowhere comfortable for him right now.

A sudden tremble overtook Jughead's lips. Flipping to his back he pulled the inside of his bottom lip between his teeth and focused on the dull pain it brought on.

Things would have been the same if he crashed in the closet of the school, on a bench at the bus station, or on some other couch in some other city that apparently someone couldn't make available for one single night – the only night he really needed it.

It was fine.

It didn't matter where, he would have felt the same anyway.

Felt like he needed to keep looking over his shoulder ready for the worst, even when his muscles ached, his eyes begged to flutter closed, and his head spun with the anxious feeling that he had to prepare for another morning routine. Felt like there was always dread bubbling below the surface sending whisperings that eventually they'd feel the weight of his burden, eventually he'd overstay his welcome, eventually he'd be left like this, laying, alone in the dead of night fighting back the sting of tears at the corner of his eyes.

Nearly a month ago, Archie had pulled him from his safety net of the school closet, a place perfect for its already expected desolation, demanding as to why Jughead hadn't shared his situation. And for the last month he had nearly forgotten why he had withheld from his best friend.

The thick comfortable blankets, the late night laughter, the mornings and nights with full plates of food, the warm sensation that there was now a place that he could go home to with people who actually wanted him there, it had become a distraction. He had forgotten the fears he always kept dangling in front as a warning sign, preparing him from whatever tragedy was sure to befall him. Forgotten that eventually kindness ran out, charity became a chore, and that it was always a matter of time before Fred Andrews decided it was better to leave the Jones boy on the curb where he belonged.

The thought had always been there, ignored, and now he was paying for it. Now it _burned_.

Over the summer he'd been wiser. He had kept distant from Archie, Fred, Betty, his dad, anyone who would offer a sliver of hope. He knew it was easier to stay bundled in a single sheet at the drive-in with a permanent spot for his luggage than feel the lump of guilt and self-loathing lodged in his throat when he was forced to relocate from someone's temporary shelter of one-time sympathy.

But he must be some kind of fucking _masochist_ , because even now, after everyone's proven how he knew they always thought of him, he's still hoping, that maybe someone will pull him from this slump.

Archie will come into the garage and do, Jughead doesn't know what, but something to quell this disgusting ripple of pain that's shooting through him. Fred Andrews will wake him with better news and a thick swell of an apology that will mend the hole that's ripping through him, or Betty will find some secret key during her crusade for the truth and pull him along a brighter path. Or he'll wake from this nightmare, roll off his mattress and find his dad crashed on the floor of the trailer, back in a state of familiar but improved disappointment.

He needs to carve into his skin that optimism is always waiting to get punched in the teeth.

None of it would happen, his current story isn't fiction, but rather a narrative of a cold-blooded reality. No one is coming to whisk him away or soothe the ache that's been gnawing at him since he threw furniture across the trailer, slammed the pay phone down onto the receiver, realized a simple dinner would always be a ploy for betrayal, abandoned his waiting spot for a road trip that was always going to be cancelled, or just hoped every day that he could have one moment as a normal, happy kid with a home, a family, and a life that he could be proud of; a life he could sleep soundly in.

That just wasn't in his narrative.

The sides of his cheeks were wet, even his neck had become damp with the ending trails of his self-pity. He was tired. All he'd done was remember things he already knew, tonight had simply been another predictable wake up call. He just wanted to drift into sleep, fade away from everything. Forget the hell he was being forced to endure.

When Jughead finally felt overwhelmed with the weight of his creeping exhaustion he made a mental note to himself. Tomorrow he would follow Fred's idea and think of his own long-term solution. Only this time, he'd be sure to do it alone.

It would be fine, even if he wasn't.


End file.
